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I scrub my hand over my jaw, like that’ll keep all this shit from crashing down around me.

Fake dating Griffin Novak’s baby sister?

Yeah.

This won’t end well.

An hour later, I’m in the equipment room getting fitted like a damn mannequin. And who shows up with a clipboard and way too much authority?

Katarina fucking Novak.

Sitting ten feet away like sin in a lab coat.

Clipboard in hand. Ponytail tight. That mouth set in a line she probably thinks reads professional—but I know better. Her lips part every time she looks at my chest like she’s holding back something dangerous.

This was supposed to be a gear assessment.

But let’s not kid ourselves—she’s here to watch me undress. And I’m letting her. Gladly.

“Arms up,” she says, already moving toward me with that measuring tape.

I lift them, muscles flexing, shirt stretched tight. She circles behind me, measuring ribcage expansion like she’s not shaking from it.

Her fingers skim under the hem of my compression top—bare skin to bare skin. My abs tighten like they’re bracing for a punch, and I swallow a curse when her palm grazes low. Too low.

“Breathing patterns during high-intensity exertion impact caloric thresholds,” she mutters, like we’re in a damn lecture hall.

She needs to stop talking. Her voice is doing things to me.

She moves to the front again. I watch her eyes as they land on my chest. My heart’s hammering so hard I’m sure she can hear it, but she keeps up the act.

Until her hands slide across my shoulders. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Mobility looks good,” she says, smoothing over the pads with a touch that isn’t clinical anymore. “These don’t restrict you.”

“They’re not the problem,” I say, and she pauses.

That gets her attention.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” I drop my arms. “This gear isn’t what’s making me lose focus.”

She lifts her chin, eyes sharp. “So what is?”

“You really want to know?”

A long silence.

“Try me.”

I take one step closer. Then another.

Now she’s in my space. Or I’m in hers. Either way, her breathing changes, and I don’t miss that flush climbing her throat.

“You want to talk about performance metrics?” I murmur. “Fine. Let’s measure mine around you.”

“Liam—”